But, despite everyone’s assumptions, he had survived an entire day of running with the big dogs. He’d kept up. And now here he was, at the final battle for existence. Not running away. Or cowering behind someone stronger than him. He was ready to fight.

Or, he would be, once he found a power outlet.

Skirting the crowd, he found his way to the far side of the club. Fingertips skimming the wall, he glided toward the back of the room, farther and farther from the stage that had captured most of the demons’ interest. The corners of the club were dim. The dark paint on the walls seemed to eat the light coming from the glass lanterns swinging overhead. Jonathan squinted down the wall into the shadows. He could barely make out the outlet he needed to power up his shrink ray. Fishing the extension cord out of his bag stole his focus. He didn’t realize until it was too late that the outlet happened to be right behind a group—a flock? A swarm?—of vampires. All of them wore floor-length leather jackets that made them look like extras in The Matrix.

Extension cord in hand, he inched toward the outlet. Willing his heart not to beat so loud, he crouched. A breath away from the nearest leather coat. The smell made him flash back to shoe shopping with his mother. Shoving his foot in the Brannock Device like there was going to be any change from the year before. Getting the same pair of black-and-white Vans for school and pinchy patent-leather oxfords for special occasions.

Distracted by the memory, he lost his balance. Right as he plugged the extension cord into the wall, his left arm brushed the hem of the leather jacket.

The vampire whirled around. The tail of his jacket smacked Jonathan’s cheeks. It was a white male vamp, his pitch-black hair slicked back into a pompadour, shiny and frozen in place with gel.

“Oi! Mind the jacket, all right?” said the vampire. Face transformed into bumps, he pressed an affronted hand to his chest, right in the open V of his mostly unbuttoned silk shirt. His fingernails were painted black and chipped.

Out of reflex, Jonathan froze in fear. But the fear only lasted for a moment. The longer he stared into the vampire’s yellow eyes, the more his fear melted into confusion.

“Oh my God!” he blurted, shooting to his feet. “Tucker!”

Andrew’s undead older brother glanced back at his group of equally leather-clad friends. One of them was wearing the Pulp Fiction bondage suit. At least, Jonathan assumed it was in reference to Pulp Fiction.

“Watch yourself, peasant. The name’s Rowan. Rowan the Merciless,” Tucker said, in an imitation Cockney accent reminiscent of Dick Van Dyke’s in Mary Poppins.